Dark Mural

by Rick Homan

  Sheriff Adams called Tuesday evening and asked to meet me in my office the next day at three, but would not say why, which irritated me. When he arrived Wednesday afternoon, I was at my desk, grading quizzes.

  He sat in the chair next to my desk and took out his notebook. “I understand you had an altercation with Devon Manus on Sunday morning.”

  He caught me off-guard with that one. “I wouldn’t call it an altercation.”

  “Would you mind telling me about it?”

  “Wait a minute. How do you know about this? Did someone call you?”

  “I’m on campus to pick up Devon Manus and take him in for questioning. When I called campus security to ask for their cooperation, the officer I spoke to mentioned you had required assistance.”

  “What do you mean ‘take him in?’”

  “We’re not arresting him just yet, although we may seek to hold him overnight. Now, would you tell me what happened?”

  “I ran into him on campus Sunday morning. He was pretty upset with me.”

  “Do you recall what he said?”

  “He thought I had told you about the incident with his high school girlfriend. I told him I only confirmed what you already knew. I also told him he probably had an alibi since he was at Marten’s for an hour after Kate left.”

  “Well that’s no longer the case.” I tried to read the sheriff’s face, but his expression was as wooden as ever. “The medical examiner was pretty clear. The victim could not have died before midnight.”

  I covered my mouth with both hands. It felt like something actors do to show they’re shocked, but I didn’t care. I wanted to cover part of my face and not let him see everything I was feeling: the loss of Kate, outrage at a life cut short, and more. When I had caught my breath, I said, “First of all, you mean ‘Kate Conrad,’ not ‘the victim.’”

  If the sheriff was surprised by my remark, he didn’t show it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Second, Devon drove his friends back to campus before eleven thirty, so that leaves him in the clear.”

  “But he would have had time to return to the scene.”

  “How?” I asked. “He couldn’t know she would be walking back to campus. She might have gotten a ride back with someone else. He wouldn’t drive around in the middle of the night hoping to see her by chance.”

  “We’re looking into all those possibilities.”

  “Doesn’t he live in a dorm? What about his roommate?”

  “His roommate went home for the weekend.”

  “But there would be other people on the floor where he lives.”

  “No one remembers seeing him in the dorm after midnight.”

  “He probably just went to bed when he got back at eleven thirty.”

  The sheriff nodded. “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

  I hugged myself to avoid shivering.

  “Dr. Noonan, you seem convinced that Devon Manus did not kill Kate Conrad. Why is that?”

  “I don’t see why he would.”

  Adams looked out the window and took a moment to think about that. “You said they quarreled. He doesn’t deny it. A young man gets his feelings hurt when a woman turns away from him. And he has a history.”

  “A history?”

  “The incident with his girlfriend during his senior year in high school.”

  “Is that confirmed?”

  “We’re looking into that.”

  “He was never arrested. There were no charges. He said the local police, his parents, and her parents all agreed to keep it quiet. What does the girl say?”

  The sheriff’s already stern expression hardened a few more degrees. “I don’t think we need to involve her and her family.”

  “I’m just asking whether or not you talked to the girlfriend.”

  “Dr. Noonan, I understand you are concerned about your student. I told you before: I am approaching this with an open mind, and he will be treated fairly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my deputy is waiting.”

  He stood up and left.

  I closed my office door, picked up the largest book I could find—a collection of full-color reproductions of Renaissance masterpieces—and slammed it down on my desk. It made a satisfying bang followed by a reverberation.

  He patronized me. He may as well have patted me on the head when he said he understood I was concerned about my student.

  He sounded so confident when he said, “He has a history,” yet he had gotten his version of Devon’s history from the police in Mansfield, Devon’s hometown, and I knew from my conversation with Devon they had nothing on record. So, really, all the sheriff had was hearsay.

  And why in the world had he said, “I don’t think we need to involve her and her family.” There was something fishy about the way everyone was keeping this quiet.

  Chapter 20

  Feeling more determined than ever to find out directly from Teresa Zannetti whether Devon had assaulted her, I opened my personal email account and checked the inbox. Teresa still had not replied to my invitation to meet. It was possible she had looked for my name on the NPR website and hadn’t found it. Or she might have checked with her high-school friends in my art appreciation class and found out I was a professor of art history, not a radio producer. The more I thought of it, the sillier my strategy seemed, but I thought I might as well give it a few more days while I tried to think of another approach.

  Back at my Rabbit Hutch Wednesday evening, I stir fried some veggies and tofu and treated myself to a glass of wine and an old movie, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. While cleaning up the dishes, I recalled the way I turned down Lionel’s invitation to have a glass of wine in his home after our trip to Yellow Springs. Somehow I felt as if I should make it up to him.

  I did some research online and discovered we had not exhausted all that southern Ohio had to offer. We hadn’t even touched Cincinnati. After jotting down information about several attractions, although it was late, I gave Dr. Lionel Bell a call.

  When he answered, “Hi Nicole,” his voice sounded surprised and delighted.

  “Good evening, Lionel. Have you ever taken the Underground Tour of Cincinnati?”

  “I can’t say I have. Why?”

  “I was just thinking that an afternoon tour could be followed by dinner at Moerlein Lager House.”

  “Well, that sounds delightful,” he said. “Are we talking about this coming weekend?”

  “That’s right.”

  He sighed. “The only problem is I’m going away this weekend, and I probably won’t be back until Monday evening.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. New York. Mom needs help while Dad is recovering from surgery.”

  My mood fell. “That’s wonderful that you can be there for them. I hope your father gets well quickly.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. He just needs some time. Can I take a rain check on that trip to Cincinnati?”

  “Of course.” I did my best to sound casual and unconcerned. “Maybe next week or the week after. Just let me know.”

  “I’m putting it on my calendar for next week. I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

  “Sounds good, Lionel. Have a safe trip.”

  I was disappointed by the postponement, but glad we were on the calendar. I would check in with him next week to see how his father was doing and to reignite anticipation of our next trip.

  At noon on Thursday, I went to the snack bar, picked up a sandwich, and hurried over to the chapel. While I ate, I prepared questions for the students in my art history class so they would know what to look for when we met to look at the mural tomorrow morning. Teaching this way felt like organizing an Easter-egg hunt.

  Once I had my questions written, I got back to studying the mural, picking up where I left off with cluster number six. It had five coffins. Four of them were occupied by women, and one of them by a man. The man was easily identifiable by his long nose: Felix Fuchs. Apparently, the muralist had painted a miniature biography o
f the founder: preaching to his followers in Germany, working as part of the community in the fields and orchards, and buried alongside women who may have represented a wife and sisters or other relatives. Similarly, the muralist had painted biographies of Smiling Woman, singing in the choir, cooking with the other women, and buried with her family in cluster number four, as well as Mr. Longhair, building, harvesting, and buried with his family in cluster number five.

  Based on this pattern, I expected to find Smiling Man in cluster number seven, but I didn’t. Instead I found smaller coffins with children inside them as indicated by short pants for the boys and sack dresses for the girls. There were eight of them. One of the girls had a long nose. One of the boys had long hair. Apparently, Fuchs and Mr. Longhair had each lost a child. The six other children were anonymous although one had spots all over him. The spots were too few and too large to represent a disease such as measles, and they were visible not only on his face, hands, and bare legs, but also on his pants and shirt. I couldn’t guess what they might mean.

  This stage in a research project is like reaching a place on a mountain trail where a gap in the trees lets you see the floor of the valley from which you ascended and the side of the mountain you still have to climb. The climber is both rewarded for all her effort and challenged by what lies ahead. I felt exhilarated by all I knew about the mural and daunted by all the things I still did not understand.

  I now knew that, along with giving an overview of life in the Eden Commune, the muralist had recorded the lives and deaths of Fuchs, Smiling Woman, and Mr. Longhair, plus the deaths of two of their children. He had also recorded the life of Smiling Man. Except for Fuchs, I did not know who these individuals were, and I did not understand what made them worth noting among the many other anonymous people of the commune. My review of Jacob’s book, Tree of Life, had turned up no clues as to their identities.

  I pulled out my phone, opened my email, and found Kate’s message, sent the day she died. “In the library today, I found some art history books that gave me some good ideas about what one of the coffins in the mural might mean.” Which coffin was she talking about? If I had to pick one, it would be the one with the spotted child because it was least like any of the others.

  For a moment, I wished I could ask the college librarians what books Kate checked out and what online searches she made on that Friday afternoon before she died, but of course that was impossible, and for good reason. In order to protect freedom of speech, the librarian’s code of ethics holds research done by library patrons confidential. That’s an important rule, but this one time I would have loved to have an exception.

  Kate probably had notes about the mural in the notebook she kept for class, but looking at it would mean asking her parents for access to her personal possessions. Although I didn’t like the idea of intruding on their grief, perhaps the condolence card I had sent after she died would assure them of my good intentions. They might also appreciate my wish to continue her research and ultimately to give her the footnote she deserved. Since the notebook looked like the only way of being sure which coffin Kate had been interested in, I would have to call them.

  On Friday morning I was relieved to find an email from Teresa Zannetti in my inbox. She said she would like to be a guest on my radio show and suggested we meet at a cafe across the street from the Ohio Northern University campus. I felt a twinge of guilt but told myself it was for a greater good.

  I sent Abbie a text suggesting we leave early the next morning.

  In art history class, I passed out a sheet with the questions I had written Thursday afternoon while studying the mural. The students were thrilled. As I read the questions aloud and commented on them, the students all started jotting answers beneath each one and showing their sheets to each other when they thought I wasn’t looking. Ursula Wilmot was more pleased than anyone, but she kept her answers to herself. This wasn’t my favorite way to teach, but it was getting us through the semester.

  Back in my office, I called the registrar, and asked for Kate Conrad’s home phone number and her parents’ names. Once I had them, I focused for a moment on my wish that this call would bring some comfort to the Conrads and dialed. Kate’s mother answered, and I said, “Mrs. Conrad, my name is Nicole Noonan. I am a professor of art history at Fuchs College.”

  “Yes?”

  She sounded hopeful. I forged ahead. “Kate was in my art history class.”

  “Yes. She loved that class. She told us all about it.”

  “She was a wonderful student. Very imaginative. She contributed so many wonderful ideas to our class discussions.”

  Mrs. Conrad was getting choked up. “Thank you, Dr. Noonan. I am glad to hear that. It helps to know she was happy.”

  “She was. And it was a pleasure and an honor to teach her.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell her father when he gets home. It’s so nice of you to take time to call. I’m sure you have so many students to see.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Conrad. If you have a moment, I wonder if I could ask you about something.”

  “Of course.”

  This felt like crossing a creek by walking on a falling log. “Kate sent me an email saying she had an idea for her term paper, and that she hoped it would be worth a footnote in my research. You see, I explained to the class that when scholars mention someone else’s idea, they recognize it in a footnote. So, I would like to include her idea in my work and mention her name. It would be a way of remembering the work she did in art history.”

  “I know she would have loved that.”

  “The problem is, we never had a chance to discuss her idea. So, I need to look at her notebook for art history class. If you like, I can visit this weekend and look through it if that wouldn’t inconvenience you.”

  “You won’t need to do that. We mailed it to another professor at the college last week, Dr. Schumacher. He called and said he needed to see it. I guess she talked about her work with him too. Does he also teach art history?”

  I could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. “No, he’s in the history department, but I know he was helping her.” It took everything I had to keep my voice pleasant and reassuring.

  “Well, maybe you could get it from him.”

  “I will do that, Mrs. Conrad. Thank you so much. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Noonan. It really helps to know she was doing well in school and happy. Goodbye.”

  I hung up and headed for the stairwell. My heart was galloping, and when it does that I find it’s best to trot up and down a few flights of stairs to burn off the adrenaline so I can think clearly.

  Chapter 21

  Once I had stabilized, I went back to my office and thought about what I had just learned. Mrs. Conrad said they sent the notebook to Jacob last week. Yet, when I talked to him in the chapel last Thursday—over a week ago—he acted as if he were unaware that there were coffins in the mural or that Kate was studying them. Obviously he went behind my back to find out what Kate was doing in my course.

  I began to suspect he intended to use Kate’s idea as his own, though I hated to think that a colleague would plagiarize the work of a student. I had thought of him as a mentor. He seemed so eager to help when I visited his office and asked about the mural in. During our sessions in the chapel, he showed such enthusiasm for the ideas we shared. But apparently he’d been spying on me the whole time.

  I could confront him and demand to see Kate’s notebook, but he would surely deny he had it. Then what? I couldn’t ask Kate’s parents to tell the dean they sent the notebook to him. It would be cruel to involve them in a faculty spat when they were grieving. I wasn’t aware of any rules or customs that apply to the intellectual property of a deceased student. Even if there were some formal way to complain about what he was doing, I wouldn’t stand a chance against the guy who had literally written the book about the history of the place, had been on the faculty for more than thirty years, and whose family was here when
the community was founded.

  Perhaps I could bypass Jacob and figure out what Kate had discovered without access to her notebook. I had worked with Kate and had some idea of how she thought. Recalling my most recent visit to the mural, I had a strong feeling that the coffin with the spotted child was the one she had in mind. I could do my own research on the culture of the region and form some idea of what that image might mean. I could also talk to Lionel about it when he was back from New York since he proved on our trip to Yellow Springs he was well read on local history. All that sounded like a lot of work, and most of it might be skipped if I could get my hands on that notebook, but I could no longer trust Jacob.

  Instead, after replicating Kate’s discovery, I could let the campus know what she had done by teaching it to my art history class, and perhaps by inviting the student newspaper to write an article about it. If I let the whole campus know Kate discovered the coffins and the spotted child, he wouldn’t dare put the discovery in a scholarly journal as it if were his own. In effect, I would stop his plagiarism by simply doing my job.

  The sooner I worked out the meaning of the spotted child, the better

  On Saturday morning, I got up before sunrise to make a thermos of tea and pack up the muffins I had made Friday evening. Abbie picked me up and we hit the road just after dawn. Once we were past Chillicothe, I broke out the tea and muffins and we had our breakfast as we cruised up Route 35 toward Dayton. The scenery was familiar from last weekend’s trip with Lionel.

  “Explain something to me,” said Abbie. “Assuming this young woman doesn’t get up and leave when you reveal you are not in fact a radio producer, she will either tell you that this guy . . . your student . . .”

  “Devon.”

  “Right. Devon either did beat her up when they were in high school or he didn’t. So, you’ll know one way or the other. Then what?”